


Indelible

by Edwardina



Category: Glee
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt's secretly been helping Sam study, but after Karofsky returns something to him, he needs someone to confide in, and Sam happens to be there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indelible

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kummer Summer. My prompt was this: "Sam sees someone flirting with Kurt. He becomes extremely possessive and takes a sharpie marker and writes all over Kurt - who is turned on by it."
> 
> I really took the back way around this prompt. It rides close to S2 canon, post-New York but before the end of the school year. However, there's no mention of Samcedes, and as per request, I dealt with Klaine as little as humanly possible.
> 
> Thanks to Kate for looking this over for me.

Kurt bit his lip and glanced at Sam Evans, who was sitting two chairs away from him in the McKinley cafeteria, furrowing his brow and idly poking his plastic fork at a brick of dried-out lasagna. Sam had finished a limp salad from the salad bar (no dressing), popped open his carton of milk, and given Mercedes his piece of chocolate cake, which also looked disturbingly capable of being used as a building block in some sort of fortress, its icing pasty like mortar.

"Sam, do you want my apple?" Kurt asked, voice low so he wouldn't interrupt the flow of Mike and Tina's bi-weekly Asian couple's therapy.

Sam looked at him, looked down again, tilted his head and looked at the apple as if resentful of its temptation, and said, "If you don't want it."

Kurt did not. He snagged the somewhat small specimen and waved it in front of Mercedes. "Hand this to Sam."

Mercedes passed it on to Tina; she had absolutely no compunctions about interrupting the continuous flow of arguments over what did and did not count as a date. "Yo. Glee club does not count. Hand this to Sam."

"See? Mercedes is on my side. Glee club, so not a date," said Tina, holding out the fruit in Sam's general direction with her eyes still locked combatively with Mike's. Sam plucked it from her fingers and rubbed it briefly against his chest, shining it on the worn plaid button-up he was wearing. He gave a tiny half-smile to Kurt, and Kurt's heart raced.

"But it's the end of the year, all we do is hang and watch musicals. It's basically a movie date," said Mike. "Back me up, here, Sam."

"Uhh. I don't know," said Sam, and bit into Kurt's apple.

"Kurt," said Tina. "Is watching _Singin' In The Rain_ in glee club technically a movie date?"

Before this year, Kurt would have said such a thing was absolutely not a date. Being stuck somewhere, doing something mandatory together... his inner romantic would have found the mere notion hugely lacking. Even though he had never been on one, in his opinion a date consisted of two people going out for coffee or dinner and then something else, like a shopping trip to the plaza to watch each other try on sunglasses or at least seeing a movie of choice in an actual theater. Something thoughtful and pre-planned, the more extravagant the better, where the couple on the date only had eyes for each other and the rest of the world fell away and a duet in two-part harmony shot through a soft lens would send it into the stratosphere of classic romance. And it would all end with a silhouetted good night kiss.

Now he wasn't so sure. For one thing, he was now all too aware that Sam probably couldn't even afford to take anyone out. Watching musicals in glee probably counted as a date with him; he was so busy with school and helping his family and taking shifts at the pizza place that time with Sam was a precious commodity. That idea made the time they spent sitting somewhat nearby each other in glee during _The Music Man_ all the more strangely exciting and confusing, even if they didn't say a word to each other, let alone spend the whole time canoodling like Tina and Mike or even just elbowing each other and referring to each other by their respective last names like Puck and Lauren. 

On that note, he couldn't tell whether what he and Sam were doing meant anything at all to Sam – it couldn't, could it? To Sam, their study dates were simply homework help.

To Kurt... well. It was getting confusing. The fact that Sam wasn't afraid to be around him and sit on the same bed as him, bumping shoulders with him all the time, meant a lot. He had never forgotten how Finn had obviously thought Kurt was going to molest him at any given moment. That Sam didn't seem to think it was weird to be around him alone or that sitting on a gay kid's bed would make him gay said so much about him.

But the fact that when they were in school they barely spoke meant something, too. They may have color-coded Sam's notes together, written an essay on Jupiter's moons together, made him festive Spanish vocab flashcards together, and watched funny YouTubes on Kurt's phone together, but they weren't... together. Not in the way Kurt was supposed to be with Blaine and Sam had been with Quinn and Santana.

They were friends, sure. But it didn't make sense, somehow. Kurt was pretty sure that no straight guy would've kept on willingly coming back to his room to climb up onto his bed with him, listen to him talk, and nearly fall asleep on him while Kurt read his novel for English out loud for him.

Kurt paused, trying not to think about Mr. Heterosexuality licking apple juice from around his mouth, then said with a prim authority, "It's a date if you want it to be a date. When you get right down to it, a date is just spending time together."

"I want it to be a date," Mike said lustily.

"Oh, Mike," swooned Tina, and Mercedes grabbed her by the arm before she could lunge out of her seat and start sucking face with Mike right then and there.

"Not at the lunch table, you guys. We talked about this!"

"Sorry, I can't help it. I love you, Mike Chang," said the imprisoned Tina.

"I love you too. Are you going to finish your pizza?"

"No. I want you to have it."

"Aw, Tina."

"Ugh," groaned Mercedes, throwing down her bag of Funyuns. "For the record, this is why Artie sits with the A/V club now. PDA is disgusting enough anyway, but when people are eating, it's extra gross."

Kurt smiled at her sympathetically. He knew that Mercedes' best defense was a good offense and that someday she'd meet some guy and fall in love and want to hold his hand and kiss him goodbye before every class in the hallway just like every other girl (or gay boy). He knew that she was just jealous but didn't want anyone to realize she was and think she was pathetic. He'd been the same way, only more hopeless.

His eyes roamed to Sam, whose own stare had wandered up and away towards the clock on the cafeteria wall. It looked like he was staring off into nothingness, like his mind was totally blank as he tapped Kurt's apple against his lower lip and took another generous bite out of it with his overly-plump mouth.

Don't, Kurt told himself, jerking his gaze sharply back down to his own tray.

"This lasagna is completely inedible," he said, shutting down that branch of the conversation. Tina and Mike went on. "I read somewhere that the Ohio State Penitentiary has better food than this, with which they nourish legions of small-time meth dealers. I don't know why I got it."

"You're trippin'," provided Mercedes.

"I'm beyond trippin'. You have no idea," replied Kurt. "I think Dalton gave me selective amnesia."

"Study dates aren't dates!" Tina erupted.

"Then why are they called study _dates_?" asked Mike.

"Oh my God," Kurt blurted, unable to keep his face from getting warm. "Speaking of selective amnesia, didn't we just settle this?"

Sam spoke up, staring at the white pathway he'd bitten across his apple. "If you're just friends, it's not a date, it's just, like... hanging out while you study."

Kurt jumped in his skin; Mercedes was jostling him. The lunch bell was still ringing in his ears even though the actual bell had stopped what Kurt gathered had to be a few seconds ago, because Mike was carrying away his and Tina's lunch trays and Mercedes had stood and hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders. Sam was standing there with the remainder of his apple clenched in his pretty teeth almost delicately as he gathered up his U.S. History book and a spiral that was coming apart at one end of its unreliable spine. Their trays were already emptied and stacked.

"Hellooo," Mercedes was saying. "Kurt. Are you coming?"

"Yeah," Kurt said, hopping up quickly, the energy of the blush he felt coming on propelling him like he could evade it if he only darted away from it somehow.

"Are you ready for the quiz?" he heard Mercedes ask Sam.

Around the apple, Sam managed, "Pro'ly nah."

Kurt swooped his tray off the table and hustled to the nearby trash can. It was big, a loud red plastic barrel with a McKinley logo sticker slapped on the side. At Dalton the trash cans were the kind like at restaurants, with a discreet door that said PUSH and a place for the tray on top. They had actual silverware there, too.

"Didn't you study?"

Sam had the apple in his hand now. "Yeah, I studied some Tuesday and some at the end of last period. I'm just really crappy at multiple choice."

"Aw, you'll do all right."

"Hope so. I really need to pull my grade up to a C for my report card."

"Let's go, you don't want to be late," Kurt said, hauling his book bag over his shoulder. Sam led the way, the letter jacket he was still wearing around despite the fact that it was late May making people move aside for him automatically, and he and Mercedes followed in the wake a jock of Sam's status warranted.

Karofsky, still wearing that red Bully Whips uniform in a defeated manner, was waiting for him just outside the cafeteria, a black binder under his arm and his walkie-talkie in hand. Sam and Mercedes both slowed, so Kurt did, too.

"Really. Still?" Mercedes asked lowly.

"Until Figgins takes them off my case," replied Kurt. "He and Santana walk me to every other class, trading off custody of me like I'm the kid caught in their ugly divorce."

"We can walk you to your next class," Sam said, pinning Kurt with so much eye contact that Kurt felt fluttery.

"Don't be silly, it's all the way upstairs and you're right around the corner. You should go on ahead. I don't mind Karofsky paying his dues," he said, smiling and letting his head bob casually from side to side. It was a too-casual nervous tic of his. "Go on. Go kick butt on your quiz."

"Let us know if this fool steps," said Mercedes loudly.

Sam and Karofsky stared each other down as Sam passed him by, though Mercedes breezed by like a true diva.

Karofsky had really reeled it in since prom, most of the time just lumbering silently around sans Azimio with an expression that made Kurt feel truly sorry for him. It was sheer misery, pain and fear masked with self-loathing and a set jaw. But for a second, locked in a blinking contest with Sam, that old sneer touched his features and gave Kurt a cold feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. It lessened somewhat as he watched Sam stick the apple back in his mouth mid-glare and continue on down the hall that way.

Kurt pushed past that old fear and held back a smile as he stopped in front of Karofsky. "Hi."

"Call off your friends, Hummel," said Karofsky tightly, watching people filter by in a jumble of backpacks and blurry faces.

Kurt ignored him. "So, I have European Lit next."

"I know," replied Karofsky, and pushed off the wall. "Let's go."

Most people had gotten used to the sight of the gay kid being escorted from place to place and had all gotten over their various stages of grief over it, but Kurt still heard things here and there. He'd heard some people saying he thought he was so important and special since he won Prom Queen, and knew that holding his head up high while he got body-guarded by the prom king in the hot zones must've made them all think that was true. It wasn't that bad when Santana was the one walking with him; everyone just thought she was his hag. When Karofsky walked him through the halls, Kurt couldn't help but feel an undercurrent of silent disgust in the form of looks too long and looks too short.

European Lit was on the second floor, and if Kurt remembered right, it was out of Karofsky's way. He had Chemistry back down on the first floor. Lunchtime was considered a hot zone, though. It was mainly Karofsky that had made it so for him, which made walking silently up the stairs with Karofsky trailing behind him feel all the weirder.

As they neared Kurt's classroom, Karofsky said, as he always did, "Wait for me after class."

"You know," ventured Kurt, turning on his heel, "you really don't have to keep doing this –"

"What, is that Evans kid your new escort?" Karofsky spat.

"... No," Kurt managed, lightly enough. Now that he knew Karofsky snapped at him without intent, that his bark was scarcely worse than his bite (which had been effectively muzzled anyway), he managed to retain a lot more patience and kindness in the hopes it would rub off. However, his head was spinning slightly at the mere mention of Sam, as if Karofsky could see right through him. "I just thought since your class is downstairs and over you might not want to come all the way back up here just to take me downstairs again. Why don't I just meet you halfway or something, if you're so intent on your duties?"

"I'm not slacking off," said Karofsky, affronted.

"It's not slacking. It's just that I'll come to you instead. It'll save us both time," said Kurt. "If you wait for me, I'll meet you by the lab and you can shuffle me off to Home Ec."

Karofsky looked to be thinking it over doubtfully. "You'll meet me."

"Yes. I will meet you," repeated Kurt.

"You won't blow me off."

It was a wonder that they were even having this exchange, as prolonged and pained as it seemed to be.

"No. I won't blow you off, Dave."

"...Okay. You meet me outside the chem lab."

It was only after Kurt nodded and strolled into the classroom and Karofsky turned from the doorway that Kurt allowed the blush he'd been holding back to roll over him fully. It was even worse than he'd expected it to be, and he sank into his desk and groped in his bookbag blindly for his annotated copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ as his face stung.

Quinn Fabray sat at the front of his row, which didn't help matters at all. Even glancing at the back of her perfect blonde waves made him feel guilty because he couldn't just be alone with his muddled, weird, crushy thoughts about the boy who wasn't his boyfriend. The fact that Quinn had dated him for half the year was an unpleasant recurring reminder of the reality that Sam liked girls. Girls, and not him; Karofsky didn't have a gaydar or gay-ray vision, he just didn't like Sam after the whole locker room confrontation incident. Kurt was with Blaine and had no business thinking about other boys.

He and Sam were friends. Their study dates were not _dates_.

 

*

 

"You seem surprised," sang Kurt, watching Karofsky's hunch lift along with his gaze as he descended the last of the stairs.

Kurt had spent the majority of European Lit just turning pages in his book. Usually he reveled in the reading time; for him, it was relaxing, and until he'd witnessed Sam's difficulties with it for himself, the ease of taking in words and seeing everything clearly in his head was something he had taken for granted. Now he appreciated it all the more. But he'd made no progress with _The Count_ –

"I told you I'd meet you. See?"

"Yeah," Karofsky grunted. He'd taken off his beret (Kurt didn't blame him; berets were a little bit too fabulous for him), but at that point he slapped it back on and adjusted it self-consciously. It was still crooked.

"Home Ec?" Kurt suggested briskly, leading the way.

It was only a short walk from the chem lab, as both of them were large rooms with large sinks and counters and other special equipment and mirrored each other on opposite ends of the hallway. It wasn't necessary for Karofsky to escort him at all.

"Hey – Hummel. Wait a second."

There was a quivery, urgent edge to the way Karofsky spoke that made Kurt stop mid-stride.

"What?" he asked, on the edge of alarm, and watched Karofsky's jaw flex. He had his hands stuffed into his shiny jacket's pockets, making Kurt suddenly notice he was devoid of his binder and radio. It looked menacing. Kurt's shoulders drew up tense.

Karofsky was still for a moment, then pulled one fist out and shoved it forward. But it wasn't into Kurt's face or anything. He was holding something in his exceptionally large fist.

"Here. Take it, okay. _Here_ ," he repeated, stepping forward carefully when Kurt didn't move. "It's yours. Sorry I took it, okay. I'm just – sorry. So take it."

Kurt let out a short breath as the item in question dropped into his hand, disconcertingly warm from being in Karofsky's jacket.

It was the cake topper he'd been dreamily keeping in his locker for wedding inspiration and smiling at like a goon between classes. The last time he'd seen it, it was pristine and Karofsky was shoving it into his pocket. Now the bride's veil was all crumpled up. A couple of pearl beads were missing from her lacy dress. It was just plastic – he'd upgraded to the max and splurged on a set of unique hand-whittled wooden figurines befitting of the autumn decor that his dad and Carole kept on display in the living room bookshelf now. It was way better than this matronly-looking thing that, in retrospect, he couldn't believe Karofsky had actually taken from him, let alone kept.

"Thank you," he said, the words feeling weird in his mouth to be saying right then.

"Sorry," Karofsky whispered hollowly.

Kurt stared at the topper. The faces of the bride and groom probably would have faded in color on their own in time, but the paint on them was almost gone entirely. Maybe the topper had been handled a lot. He almost wanted to just hand it back to Karofsky.

He didn't want this thing. He didn't want to look at it and remember that fear he'd been living in when Karofsky had taken it from him in the first place. But he sensed that telling Karofsky to just keep it or even just toss it would be akin to not accepting the apology, and the tentative peace between them felt too important to be careless with. So instead, Kurt tucked the topper into the pocket of his cardigan and picked his words carefully.

"I'm glad you wanted to give it back to me. Don't keep beating yourself up, okay? I forgive you and I want you to forgive you, too. You don't deserve to be bullied by you any more than I did."

Karofsky just nodded tersely once, looking away, and after a few seconds of looking like he was trying not to break into tears again, he reached out and put his hand heavily on Kurt's shoulder. It wasn't a cruel touch, nor was it long; Kurt was still a homo, after all, and this was still public. Students were walking past them. It was like a clap on the shoulder that Karofsky held just long enough to seem to draw strength from before he stalked abruptly away.

Mercedes and Sam were apparently literally right behind him, because Kurt almost jumped at the two of them suddenly in his personal bubble.

"What was that?" Mercedes wanted to know when Karofsky had lumbered out of earshot, into the mill of students.

"Did he say something to you?" Sam asked, voice deceptively calm. He was watching the back of Karofsky like a hawk.

"No, not really," Kurt said hastily.

"All good?" Mercedes asked.

"Yes."

"Thank God." It was then that Mercedes stepped from Sam and Kurt realized she'd had both arms wrapped around one of his. "I have had my fill of holding crazy people back today. See you, crazy person number two. I got cupcakes to frost."

Kurt arched a brow. Sam didn't seem to know whether to look abashed or not as Mercedes rounded the two of them and disappeared into the Home Ec room, and Kurt's mouth slid open around nothing. He didn't know what exactly to say, watching Sam reach across his own chest to grasp awkwardly over his bicep. It seemed like Sam had been about to confront Karofsky again, but Kurt didn't know whether that was actually so, if he should thank Sam or not – what if it wasn't for him? Karofsky _was_ bearding it up with Sam's ex-girlfriend, although he didn't know if Sam realized it was a total sham or not.

"Uh... later," said Sam, stepping away. "Make good cupcakes."

"Wait, how did you do on your quiz?" asked Kurt. He was invested, seeing as how he'd helped Sam highlight the salient points of his history chapter to study.

Sam flashed him not only one but two thumbs up and a sheepish smile, history book awkwardly gripped under his elbow.

"You must've done your homework," said Kurt innocently.

 

*

 

"Okay, so now that we're alone, tell me more about your quiz," Kurt said later, as he lead Sam upstairs to his light, sun-filled bedroom.

The upstairs had become his and Finn's domain, but Sam had been a staple feature since late April, when his grades had started to slip to the point where he'd be ineligible to go to Nationals with the glee club if he didn't shape up quick. It was the first thing Kurt had found out, and after agreeing not to mention it to anyone, he'd tried to meet up with Sam at least once a week since to give him a hand. He'd only found out about everything else that had happened with the Evans family in the following days, when Sam couldn't seem to find any way to explain where some of his school stuff had gotten off to and why he didn't have a computer to respond to Kurt's emails with anymore. Despite how busy they both were, Kurt had upped the meetings to twice a week.

"It was fine. It was only half multiple choice, so I got most of those right. Then we had to match dates to events and I got two of those mixed up. But I got a 'good job' on my essay."

Kurt smiled. Sam's essays were so brief they barely counted as essays, and sometimes he misspelled the same word three different ways in the same paragraph. But Mr. Harrison was totally lenient on spelling, as long as he could tell what was meant, and always appreciated effort.

"Awesome," he said, and meant it. "Keep that up and you might even pull a B for the end of the year."

"That would be awesome," Sam agreed, shrugging his backpack off and taking a seat on the edge of Kurt's bed.

Strictly speaking, he wasn't really supposed to have boys – or at least, Blaine – in his room without telling his parents and leaving the door open a crack, but Finn was home and Sam was straight, so Kurt shut the door behind them. He had to ignore the feeling that he was doing something wrong every time he and Sam were alone.

Sam whipped out the quiz to show to Kurt (he'd made an 82), and Kurt took it with a smile, flipping to the second page to see where Mr. Harrison had written in classic red, _Good job_.

"This looks really good, Sam. And you said you weren't prepared."

"I just never know if I've studied enough," said Sam.

"All that highlighting paid off handsomely," said Kurt, handing the paper back. "I know teachers don't like it when kids write in books, but I say screw them and keep highlighting. If it helps you, it'll help whoever has that book next year."

Sam tucked the quiz away. "Well, I don't actually have a highlighter."

"Oh, right. We used mine. Don't worry, I've got plenty of highlighters."

Kurt strode to his bookshelf and pulled out a shiny black box that held mostly pens and markers of different colors, including the aforementioned highlighters. Every year, he got a variety of colors to use according to the class or his mood. He even had a pen that had five different colors of ink in it; a flick of a switched changed out which color was being used. Expressing himself, even via school supplies, was kind of his poison. He had six different colored Sharpies, and he hadn't used any of this stuff at Dalton. They were all about black, blue, and red ink only. He doffed the lid and brought the box to Sam, its contents rolling inside.

"You should take a couple with you."

"They smell good," Sam commented quizzically.

Kurt huffed in amusement. "That's because this box contained a cologne gift set in its previous life."

Sam took the box from him and gave it an unsurreptitious sniff.

"Kind of smells like you."

"Oh, do I smell like Sharpie and Dior Homme?" joked Kurt. Then he realized it was weird to ask a boy how he smelled, so he hopped subjects adeptly, rounding the bed to seat himself on the other side of it. "What have you got coming up tomorrow? Any tests?"

Sam blinked for a moment. "Uh..."

"Geometry?" asked Kurt, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling each tidy pale blue sleeve up his forearm with practiced precision. There was a test every Friday in every math class at McKinley.

"Yeah."

"Why don't you get started on that, and if you run into any issues, we'll see if I can help. Then if we have time, we can do more _Animal Farm_."

"Cool," said Sam with a small sigh, setting the box of markers on the bedside table beside him.

Sam's English grade was abysmal. He was always behind on reading, and Kurt knew the errant-seeming _good job_ he'd gotten on his history essay was hard-won, because he'd witnessed firsthand that Sam's writing was a hot mess.

Kurt didn't know a ton about dyslexia, but from the times in glee that they'd been learning group choreography, he'd noticed that Sam did some things backwards. With extra help from Mike or Mr. Schue, Sam usually had it forcefully nailed down in muscle memory by showtime, but they still tended to stick him in back or to the side of the group if they could due to the likelihood of his spins turning in the direction opposite of everyone else's.

The few times Kurt was able to coax him to read some of _Animal Farm_ out loud, Sam was halting at best, sometimes seeming to disregard punctuation entirely and every now and then reversing a word but not noticing it no longer fitting into the context of the sentence, he was concentrating so hard on just getting through it. Reading out loud seemed to make him more far more nervous than singing a solo in front of an audience at competition. Sam was clearly relieved every time Kurt took the book from him and rewarded the effort by reading the rest of the chapter to him. But despite all the little difficulties he seemed to have in keeping things in order in his brain, Sam wasn't stupid. He had his moments of charming naiveté, but he worked much harder than Finn, or anyone else Kurt knew, just to keep up. He'd never backed down from reading out loud for Kurt, even though it was a chore and obviously made him self-conscious. Together they were getting him through _Animal Farm_ at a pretty decent pace, and it was probably the thing he enjoyed helping Sam with the most. Reading out loud was like giving a little performance to an audience that was completely rapt, even if that was due to scholastic distress.

Admittedly, Kurt also just had a soft spot for boys that were in obvious need of his assistance.

Said boy toed his Converse off politely, leaving them by Kurt's bed as he leaned back against the headboard with his math book on his knees. Kurt had set aside _The Count of Monte Cristo_ in effort to catch up with what he'd missed reading in class, but the moment he looked at the cover, the heat of embarrassment over Karofsky bringing up Sam rushed back to him.

Sam had said that hanging with someone on a study date didn't make it a _date_ -date, and since he and Kurt had regular Tuesday and Thursday study dates that they kept so on the downlow they might as well have been government spies digging a hole to China, Kurt couldn't help but feel Sam had been referring to them when he'd said that.

It made a lump rise in his throat that he swallowed against forcefully.

Of course none of it meant anything to Sam. For all the glee club seemed to think, Sam wasn't gay, so spending so much time with Kurt didn't mean anything to him like it did with Blaine. And Kurt choosing to study with Sam over driving out to Westerville to go on an actual date with his actual boyfriend didn't mean anything to him. He wondered if Sam thought about that.

It wasn't that Kurt had ever deluded himself into believing that studying together meant that he and Sam were more than friends. He'd learned his lesson about crushing on straight boys with Finn. He had. Really. It was just that Blaine was the only other guy he'd shared a bed with (even as friends, just sitting around) since an ill-fated sleepover with a kid from Cub Scouts who had rejected playing the emcee to Kurt's Miss America and also wouldn't go with the intriguing storyline of the White Ranger and Black Ranger marrying in an appropriately silver-themed wedding aided by tinfoil decor. It was heavy for Kurt, sitting next to a boy in bed. He couldn't help his body's edgy response every time Sam's elbow knocked into his arm or he looked over and realized he was talking to a super cute blond boy who was relaxing on Kurt's bed of his own volition.

Kurt reached for his Bio II book instead. He'd just have to wait until he was alone to get with _The Count_.

"So what was up with Karofsky?"

Kurt nearly dropped his book. "What?"

"In the hall today. I saw him and thought he was pushing you, but I guess he wasn't, 'cause Mercedes stopped me from going over."

So Sam had been about to confront him. Kurt warmed, his disappointment melting away. What with all the ways he had Karofsky under his thumb now, he honestly didn't need a protector... but it was still flattering that a guy like Sam would step up for him without one second of hesitation.

He leaned over and pulled loose the laces of his shiny oxfords. "Nothing. He was just apologizing."

"Really."

"Yeah. I don't know if he's serious, but... you know. He has issues," Kurt said, as vaguely as he could. He abandoned his shoes by the side of the bed, too. He was wearing silky pale blue dress socks with a gold and navy argyle pattern shot through them. Sam wore the same kind of white gym socks with grey toes and heels that Finn did. Their feet looked hilariously mismatched, stretched out in front of them. "He's... trying, I guess."

"Well, Santana's got him bully whipped," said Sam, rather cleverly for him, although the joke was rendered sad to Kurt. Sam was so out of the loop – not just with Karofsky, but with Santana, too. He knew Sam couldn't possibly know everything everyone else in glee took for granted about Brittany and Santana, after a year of watching them link pinkies and cuddle during love songs. Sam had only ever seen Brittany with Artie. It was just another one of those ways in which he seemed a step behind everyone else.

Kurt gave him a little smile and watched Sam de-cap and re-cap Kurt's blue Sharpie. Did Sam intend to do his geometry in Sharpie?

One side of Sam's mouth had taken on a tight downward curve. He muttered, "Who knows, maybe she'll straighten him out."

"Yes, I'm sure that's the idea," allowed Kurt, trying not to actually laugh. He didn't want to rain on Sam's nice guy parade by expressing his sincere doubt that Santana and Karofsky would be waving rainbow flags anytime soon.

It was so tempting to let him into the loop, though. While neither Karofsky or Santana deserved to be outed, it wasn't fair for Sam to go on thinking Santana had dumped him for a hotter catch. Sam had taken a punch in the eye from that guy. Gone after him. Like a wild animal – those were the words Mike had used.

"Sam," he said tentatively.

There was a click as Sam popped the lid back on the Sharpie and looked at him.

"If I tell you something," said Kurt, his own voice sounding thin in his ears, "will you promise you won't tell anyone?"

Sam's brows lifted. His blond bangs were a shaggy mess over them.

"Sure."

"Like, really. No one," pressed Kurt. His pulse was pounding oddly in his wrists, so he rubbed each with his thumbs.

"I promise," said Sam, simple and straight-forward.

"Okay. Just... I've only told one other person. And I know I probably shouldn't tell you, but I want you to know... so you'll... know more."

Kurt took a moment; his thoughts were scrambled. Glancing at Sam, he saw that Sam was looking at him in a determinedly steady way.

"You remember my parents' wedding?"

"Yeah. You transferred right after it."

"Ah, you do remember," murmured Kurt, surprised, and fished into his bookbag for the sorry-looking cake topper. "Well, while I was planning it, I kept this in my locker, and one day, Karofsky came along and took it from me." He held out the little figurines, and Sam took them curiously. "It was... scarier than it sounds. Just the way he made me feel like I couldn't have anything at all that he didn't hover over like some gargoyle or – take from me. I haven't thought about it in months. I didn't even know he kept it. But he just gave it back to me today, for some reason."

"When he apologized?" Sam asked observantly.

"Yes."

He watched Sam's mouth flatten as he turned the cake topper over in his hand. It didn't sound like a big deal, Kurt knew, unless you had already been conditioned to be terrified.

"That's not the secret. Although you are the only person I've told about the cake topper thing," said Kurt, and accepted the trinket when Sam handed it back to him. "A few weeks before that, I... confronted him, I guess. He shoved me into the lockers, which he did every other day, and I was trying to be proactive and... brave, so I ran after him and started yelling at him in the locker room. I don't even remember what I said. I was just so pissed off, I was probably yelling out everything I could think of. Anyway, I was yelling, he was yelling; we were up in each other's faces and I thought, 'this is it, he's going to beat the crap out of me,' but instead, he – he kissed me."

The words came out in a weak breath. Kurt hadn't said them out loud in a long time.

"Karofsky?" Sam asked, as if Kurt had forgotten to include some third person in the story.

"Yes. Karofsky kissed me."

Kurt hazarded another glance at Sam, but Sam had looked away. Kurt supposed all this was awkward to be telling a straight guy. He hurried on.

"I pushed him away and he ran off. I was kind of in shock about it, so I called Blaine. I'd just met him, but he was the only other gay guy I knew, and it was... the only thing I could think to do. I didn't want to tell a teacher – I mean, I didn't know if any teacher would believe me or understand where this was coming from. Like, what popular jock would kiss the gay kid? And I didn't want to tell anybody from glee. It was honestly embarrassing, and I also... I didn't know if any of you guys would care. So Blaine drove to McKinley to try and talk to him. It, uh, didn't go well."

Sam's eyes were narrowed, but it seemed to be in concentration. "Do you think Karofsky's gay?"

Kurt's heart was beating triple-time. He was very close to having an out-of-body experience, nearly seeing himself sitting there next to Sam confessing everything in an unexpected rush.

"Yes. I mean, I think so. But if he is, he doesn't want to admit it, and even though I'm telling you what happened right now, I don't believe in outing anyone. So, Sam, please don't tell anyone about this. It's Dave's choice if he wants to be straight, gay, closeted, one of those people into Muppets. I just want you to know that I'm pretty sure Santana has him pegged. I think she's dating him to control him, because that's the kind of girl Santana is. She didn't break up with you because you did anything wrong."

"She didn't break up with me at all," said Sam distantly.

"Wait, what do you mean?"

"Well, she dumped me, she just didn't tell me she had. She got up and told the glee club she was in love with him or whatever. So I found out along with everybody else, I guess."

"Oh. That sucks, Sam. I'm sorry," Kurt offered lamely, though he was relieved to hear that Santana wasn't dating Karofsky and Sam at the same time or something. "I hear that's how they roll in Lima Heights. Love 'em and leave 'em."

Sam let out a sharp puff of breath. "He _kissed_ you?"

A blush jumped painfully into Kurt's face. It seemed like an awkward lurch backwards in the conversation, but maybe Sam was just now getting it.

"Yes," he whispered, watching Sam's mouth draw tight and then twist. He couldn't put his finger on Sam's tone of voice or expression; he looked sort of sick and put out at the same time. At a loss, Kurt guessed, "Does that gross you out?"

Off popped the Sharpie cap. "Yeah. But I mean, it's because of Karofsky, not you."

"I know. He's not my type, either," said Kurt jokingly.

"Does he like you, or something?" Sam asked, snapping the cap on and off the marker.

"I really don't know..."

"But he kissed you."

"I – yeah," said Kurt, feeling a guilty flush of pleasure that Sam seemed to be realizing that it was a big deal. When he'd told Blaine, Blaine had just patted him and bought him a pity lunch, and Kurt had felt stupid for dwelling on that aspect of the whole ordeal. After all, he'd let Brittany kiss him last year, so even though it hadn't meant anything to him, didn't that count in some extremely technical way as his first kiss? It was not a whole lot better than his tormentor planting one on him. He added softly, more for his own relief than Sam's benefit, "It was my first kiss. You know. From a boy. When I'm sixty, my real first kiss will still have been from Dave Karofsky."

Sam looked at him, then, and said, "That sucks," in a sheepish, winded kind of way.

Before Kurt could think of a suitable rejoinder, Sam had wrapped slender fingers around Kurt's bared forearm.

"Gimme your hand," he whispered, and gave a gentle tug to Kurt's right arm. Kurt let him pull it over, skin tingling weirdly as he rested the back of his hand benignly on Sam's leg.

"What...?" he began, but Sam didn't answer, except to hunch over his arm, press the tip of the blue Sharpie to the clean, ivory-pale skin of Kurt's arm and draw two short parallel lines there on the inside of his arm. It might've been just because they were touching and Kurt wasn't beyond soaking in the strange attention, but he didn't fuss or knock Sam away as he drew two more lines. The tip of the marker tickled. A curl of ink that became a _6_ followed the number sign.

Kurt couldn't help his breaths coming faster; they moved his chest noticeably, so he tried to bite them back. Sam could probably feel his heartbeat pounding in his veins, since he was holding Kurt's arm in place.

"You have a boyfriend now, right?" asked Sam casually. "That Dalton guy everybody thought you were cheating on with me?"

"Yes," managed Kurt.

"Has he kissed you?"

"Yeah. Yes. We kiss."

Sam traced a shape onto his skin. Kurt thought for a moment he was going to put down the number 8, but when Sam stopped, it looked more like a 5. A lower-case _a_ followed, and Kurt flushed what he was pretty sure had to be a deep wine-red. Sure enough, Sam put down an _m_. Sam had written his name onto Kurt's arm. And _#6_ – that was Sam's number on the football team.

"Are you giving me your autograph?" Kurt asked, his voice sitting in its highest register out of surprise.

"Yep," said Sam, breaking into a satisfied smile.

"Oh, really?" he said daringly. "What else are you going to write? 'Best of luck'? 'Reach for the stars'? You have to have a decent autograph. I've practiced mine since I learned cursive and I have very high standards."

"You get a heart," said Sam with a grin, and drew an uneven excuse for a heart in blue indelible ink. It looked oddly boyish, which was actually so cute Kurt was nearly taken aback by it. "Sorry, it's bad. I can't draw." Sam went over the lopsided lines, trying to make them more even but just staining more skin blue.

"It's very sweet," Kurt whispered, his real heart palpitating like crazy.

Sam's smile faded, and he glanced up at Kurt with hooded eyes. He looked for a moment like he wasn't sure where he was or what he was doing with his hand wrapped around Kurt's arm, like some spell was about to break, but Kurt didn't move, except for his breaths making his chest rise and fall in shallow, desperate pulls. He looked at Sam's eyes, at his ridiculously curvacious Cupid's bow and shaggy blond locks swept over his forehead, and Sam looked back hazily, a somewhat skittish edge of uncertainty in his shoulders. When it became apparent to him that Kurt wasn't going to move or say anything, Sam abruptly reached, Sharpie poised, toward Kurt's blank left arm, leaning over Kurt's lap.

Oh, God, Sam smelled like a _boy_. Like school and Tide and Old Spice deodorant and clean, earnest sweat and cheap shampoo. Somewhere under all that, too, was the sharp chemical smell of permanent ink, both unpleasant and satisfying, and it all hit Kurt at once. He inhaled deeply, blinking through a heavy flush of intensity and arousal and trying to focus as Sam attacked the clean slate of his arm, writing big and bold something he recognized right away, this time.

E-v-a-n-s.

The _S_ of it trailed dangerously close to Kurt's palm, sidling along a vein that was standing out embarrassingly with how heavily Kurt's pulse was racing. The word was drawn so big it roamed down his entire forearm, from the rolled-up cuff of his shirt in the crook of his elbow to his wrist. Just looking at Sam's name all over both his arms was enough to make him stiffen in his jeans and go red in the face with shame.

Jeez, if he'd known he was going to be letting Sam write his name all over him in Sharpie, he wouldn't have worn skinny jeans. There was no possible way Sam could miss him getting hard from this – and Sam was going to flip. He was going to laugh and leave awkwardly and that would be the end of Tuesday/Thursday study dates, and oh my God, Kurt _was_ predatory.

Kurt kept still, alarm at his own horniness and how obvious it was ringing in his ears, as Sam leaned back, huffed out a big breath, and flicked his gaze to Kurt's again. A moment later, he was putting the Sharpie between his lips, holding it between them as he reached out and worked open the topmost button on Kurt's shirt, just beneath the knot of his white bowtie. The rest came to him faster, fingers surprisingly adept, and he was down to where Kurt's shirt was tucked into his jeans before Kurt could fully process it. Kurt gripped tight at Sam's knee with the hand that had been casually sitting there on his thigh and tried not to lose consciousness or something as Sam pushed his shirt open. He was wearing a thin ribbed white undershirt beneath, but Sam didn't seem deterred. He tangled fingers into it and yanked it right up Kurt's stomach, and Kurt twisted to help him, out of his mind because it hardly seemed real.

He was so hard, so turned on he couldn't breathe right. Couldn't Sam see it? His white jeans were straining in a tight curve, hugging his hard-on, and he could feel Sam's body heat on his bared skin.

A strain of self-consciousness made its way through him at the fact that Sam was seeing his bare chest like this, even though that was so stupid; it wasn't a big deal for guys to be shirtless. He'd seen Sam pretty close to naked in the locker room. Kurt wasn't the type to go around with his shirt off, though. He was pale and his nipples were baby pink and he didn't have even a small percentage of the muscle tone Sam did and he didn't know if Sam was the type to care about that – he didn't know if it mattered at all or what Sam was thinking – 

There was a wet noise as Sam snagged the Sharpie from his own mouth and bent over Kurt with purpose.

He started tracing out a word over Kurt's stomach, and it tickled, but only in a way that made Kurt's skin goosebump and his dick strain helplessly harder.

"What are you writing?" he managed, though it was barely breath.

"'Trouty Mouth,'" Sam replied, prompt. "Will your boyfriend see it?"

Kurt's belly pulled in sensitively. " _No_."

"Will Karofsky see it?"

"No!" gasped Kurt.

"Still," said Sam, in his broad monotone. "I don't see anyone else's name all over you."

"Sam," Kurt huffed. "Do you not – I don't know if you realize what you're doing..."

Sam looked up at him in an almost plaintive way, eyes big and serious.

"Getting you hard?"

Kurt's face could not have burned redder. Confusion and a fresh push of arousal swept through him, making him dizzy. He tried not to breathe as hard as he was, but it made his vision swim to try and tamp it down.

Sam said, "It's cool. I've seen dudes hard before."

"What?" was all Kurt could get out in a breath. Was this for real? Was Sam really gay? After all the denying and cheerleader-dating and plaid-wearing?

"Unbutton these," said Sam lowly, snagging his index finger into a belt loop on Kurt's jeans.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. Let me see," Sam coaxed, and Kurt blinked up at his ceiling in utter shock.

Never in a million years would he have guessed that this was going to happen to him. Not this way. Not with ostensibly-straight Sam Evans and not with Kurt's hard-on the subject of his interest.

He wondered for a split second if he should even do this, if it was really wrong, like _really_ wrong, and also stupid – but years of beaten-back desires and curiosities were overriding his logic centers in a massive coup. Sam was a tall, beautiful football player who dated girls, and his friend, and all they did together was homework... This was not supposed to be happening. It felt like he was moving in a dream as he lifted his fingers to his fly and opened it slowly.

The Sharpie was back in Sam's mouth. Unbelievably strong hands tugged Kurt's jeans down by the waist, and a momentary sensation of how utterly wrong it was to have his pants down next to a boy in bed gripped Kurt. His thighs were bare on his sheets before he knew it, jeans caught above his knees, and his dick was tenting his pristine white boxer-briefs. Sam was looking at it, pulling at the elastic of his boxers until he had them down, too, and had Kurt shivering in the open air, naked save some blue Sharpie scribblings from his ribs to his thighs. His voice felt stuck in his throat; he just stared at Sam looking at him... looking at his dick, flushed pink and arching needily. It walked some fine line between humiliating and so hot he could barely cope, that Sam was seeing him so naked and so hard. He didn't know exactly how he compared to the other guys Sam apparently had seen, but he was glad a certain amount of manscaping had been a habit of his pretty much since he'd gotten pubes. Wait, what if that was weird?

Sam's hand grazed his thigh, raising every hair on Kurt's body and making a gasp tear from his chest.

It seemed both ridiculous and amazing as Sam took the Sharpie in hand again, the gray plastic casing shining wetly where it had been in his mouth, and slowly began to write on him some more. This time it was on his strangely tender, newly-exposed hipbone, and it made Kurt swoon so hard his eyes wouldn't stay open to see what Sam was writing. He felt it tickle of the tip moving over his skin, felt the momentary wetness of the ink before it dried there on him, felt the warm tease of Sam's knuckles against him as he wrote.

Kurt's mouth fell open as he felt the heat of Sam's hand passing over his dick, not touching it but so close he could literally feel the warmth of his skin so near it. Then Sam continued writing on his other hip. 

Kurt didn't even care what he was writing, only that he was still doing it. Even if it was super weird and Sam just backed off and told him he could pull his pants up again, it was still the hottest thing that had ever happened to him, letting another boy see his body and write all over it as if filling in a space that was prefaced with _This Book Belongs To_.

And it was true, what he'd said... no one would ever see it. Not Blaine. Not Karofsky. Not anyone but the two of them. He felt suddenly bonded with Sam in a way he'd never felt with anybody else before.

Sam began to draw on his thigh; Kurt finally jerked his head up to try and look. He could see blue lettering on his terribly white hips but apparently didn't have enough blood in his brain to read it upside-down. After a heated few seconds of letting his eyes dart between the words and Sam's face – which was sunburn-red in comparison to Kurt's skin – he read on one hip, _was here_. Following the words on his stomach, it read _Trouty Mouth was here_. On his other hip... he couldn't seem to read it. He was too hard, too close to losing it. He had no idea what Sam was putting on his thigh, either.

Kurt's breath whimpered, and even though it was embarrassing when Sam paused and looked up at his face, Kurt grabbed at the collar of his plaid button-up and pulled him in. Sam blinked at him, balancing awkwardly on his elbow, and Kurt lunged before he could chicken out or Sam could stick that Sharpie back in his mouth. He didn't know if Sam was gay or straight or messing with him; Kurt kissed him anyway, pressing his mouth to Sam's half demanding and half questioning.

For a few heartbeats, Sam just seemed to accept it, still and remarkably unperturbed. Then he pressed back tentatively, and Kurt's stomach dropped low, his stiff dick twitching. Sam's mouth was overwhelmingly full and firm. He gentled underneath it, and Sam broke from him. Their eyes met, and Kurt thought he looked unsure.

" _Kiss me_ ," Kurt whispered fiercely, but was still somehow surprised when Sam actually did, apparently responding to the plea as urgently as Kurt had given it. He exhaled harshly when Kurt dared to touch his jaw and touched him back after a moment, fingers (Sharpie threaded through them) gingerly resting on Kurt's stomach.

Desperation seemed to bloom out like a supernova beneath Sam's hand; Kurt scrabbled for his own dick and fisted it, somehow feeling ashamed and dirty and liberated all at once. He could feel Sam's awareness of what he was doing in the way his neck and shoulders tensed and a small puffed _oh_ of breath escaped the press of their mouths. Was it too much? Too gay?

Then Sam's hand crept lower, fingertips sliding over sensitive skin Kurt kept fastidiously clean-shaven. Kurt's hips jumped from the shock of it. He let his aching dick go and grabbed at Sam's hand. Sam fumbled with him, dropping the Sharpie (it rolled into the low, taut sink of Kurt's stomach) and letting Kurt help him get his fingers around Kurt's dick. It was clumsy, but Kurt was dripping to come and someone else – a _boy_ – was touching him. He squeezed his fingers around Sam's encouragingly.

"God, Sam," he breathed, electrified, and Sam's touch went from awkward to intent, stroking in a way that was totally knowing in the way only another guy could be.

"You like that?" Sam asked, sounding pleased.

"No one's ever –" Kurt faltered, but felt too vulnerable to continue. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd been saying in the first place – _touched me there before_ , maybe, or _made me feel this way_. Either way it was admitting too much. It was kind of scary.

But Sam responded, in an unfamiliar high and young pitch, "Me neither."

Kurt clutched him into a kiss, excitement rattling him to the soul, and groped inelegantly across Sam's impressively cut abs.

Sam didn't even wait to groan, and Kurt's breath caught in response. When Kurt found his dick under the polite preppy button-up and t-shirt and relaxed fit jeans, he found it oddly huge-feeling, like he couldn't even cover it with his whole palm at once. Wow, Sam was bigger than him. Instead of being embarrassed, though, Kurt was wildly intrigued, and so turned on he was edging dangerously. God, just touching another boy's dick through his jeans was so hot he thought he might die, but Sam was touching him back.

It swelled in him in about two seconds, the fact that all of it was happening, and he suddenly wasn't in control of his own body at all – couldn't have held back if he'd tried. He was coming so hard his spine was arching off the bed without his permission, the Sharpie rolling, jizz shooting up through his dick so rigid in Sam's grip and hitting his own stomach. It slid, heavy and wet and hot, down the slope from his ribs to his navel.

Sam made a gutted noise, and Kurt came harder just hearing it, just smelling Sam and feeling the heat and weight of his hard-on under the rough denim of his jeans. His hips wracked, and Sam jacked him deliberately through it, urging out pulse after pulse of come until Kurt had nothing left but was still endlessly coming in waves of mingled embarrassment and arousal. Sam's knee hooked over his thigh, pinning it down, and Kurt gasped in aftershock. God, he was coming in front of Sam Evans. Sam had _made him_ come.

When he could see somewhat in-focus again, Kurt lifted his head, his hair brushing against Sam's, and looked at his own sucked-in stomach, the messy blue scrawl of _Trouty Mouth_ streaked over with shiny, slippery jizz. He was marked up everywhere... and Sam's hand was still wrapped, slender and as strangely pretty as the rest of him, around the base of his dick. He seemed to be just holding it now. The Sharpie had fallen between them and left a random streak of blue on Kurt's side.

With a shaky hand, Kurt snagged it and tossed it off the bed, uncapped, then returned to give Sam's dick a tentative squeeze through his jeans. Body stiffening, Sam let out a breath.

"I'll come," he whispered thickly. It sounded both threatening and fearful – and unbelievably hot to hear a boy say to him – and Kurt suddenly wondered if Sam was thinking of Beiste.

"Come," Kurt whispered back permissively. Sam's face flinched.

"I... have to wear these jeans till Saturday," he said, and Kurt watched his throat work and realized he was desperately swallowing back the impending creaming of his jeans. The answer seemed obvious.

"Don't come in them. Come on me," Kurt said, lids going heavy with the mere idea. Sam moaned, low and involuntary. "I'm already covered in... Sharpie. If you're gonna write your name all over me, you might as well come all over me too –"

"God, Kurt," Sam let out sharply. Kurt abruptly felt sexier than he'd ever felt in his life. It was so strange, to go from feeling uncertain and guilty for just wanting to sit beside Sam in glee to feeling like he had Sam in the palm of his hand.

Gently, Kurt unbuttoned Sam's jeans for him and whispered, "You want to, don't you? You should let me watch."

"Dude... you're gonna – talk me off," Sam breathed in a rush. He awkwardly let Kurt go and got his fly down. Kurt's gaze dropped from his expression to his hips as Sam wiggled his jeans and briefs down, all tensed cut muscle. He caught sight of a light happy trail that led to sparse, fawny hair around his dick and was shocked at how hot he found it. He didn't like his own pubes (or really any of the hair on his body below his nose) and kept them shaved low and then trimmed. But Sam's body hair was lighter, almost golden-toned, and looked good on him, natural and masculine. And Sam's dick was as hot as the rest of him, slightly out of proportion and red like his mouth. It was actually pretty in his own hand. Kurt stared openly; he'd never seen a guy touching himself outside of a few x-tube clips he'd just shut down instead of finish. It seemed so personal.

He looked up in time to see Sam suck on his own lower lip; he was looking down at Kurt's body, just how Kurt had been looking at his.

"Let me," Kurt said, trying to sound reassuring but feeling more like he was pleading for permission. His fingers tangled with Sam's briefly as they wrapped around his fist and Sam backed off to let Kurt hold him – hold another boy's cock for the first time.

It felt strangely unlike holding his own, and yet completely familiar and right. But even the gentle way Kurt palmed it, fingers light and reverent in their loop around it as they stroked the hot skin that moved in a silken way over the shaft, made Sam's body clench tightly. He knew then it wasn't going to last long, this chance to have Sam in his hands, and tightened his grip so he could feel how completely hard Sam's dick actually was. A clear dribble leaked out of Sam's slit and dripped heavily to his slim hip, as if Kurt had squeezed it out, and Sam let out a wincing breath, lip tugging till Kurt could see a bared canine tooth.

"Don't hold back," Kurt said lowly. "I'm not some squeamish girl, I don't want you to cool off – I want you to come. I want you to come _on me_ –"

Sam's body curled, one knee planting between Kurt's, their hips grinding together momentarily, and Kurt's breath caught. He knew Sam was coming before it hit his skin. Sam sucked and hitched desperately for breath through his clumsy lips and pretty teeth and choked in the back of his throat as he shot off on Kurt's belly. Compared to the jizz already lukewarm and thickened in Kurt's belly button it was so hot – hot from being inside Sam, which kind of bent Kurt's brain – and somehow it was different than Kurt's, too. It was pearlier, thinner, wetter, making Kurt's look stark white by comparison, and there was so much. It felt like Sam was pinning him down and covering every inch of his skin and all that blue ink in feverish spatters. It caught on Kurt's knuckles, slid into his grip somehow. Kurt watched Sam's dick slip wetly through his fingers for what felt like a long time, and Sam just let him touch it, pump it slowly.

Finally, he lifted his chin and met Sam's eyes, which widened somewhat as he looked at them. Kurt blinked rapidly, trying to get a handle on the situation before the reality of it smacked Sam upside the head.

"That was... really cool," he panted.

Sam exhaled, an audible _whoosh_ of tense breath escaping him.

"Did you like it?" Kurt asked bravely, trying to sound casual.

A smile tugged up one corner of Sam's mouth. "Yeah."

"Cool," managed Kurt. He watched Sam's eyes search his face and roam down his body again, looking at how messed up he was – all the blue lettering that was all over his arms, stomach, hips, and thigh and all their come sliding together, his dick in Kurt's desirious grip – and then watched him slump back onto both his elbows and stare at the ceiling. He took his hand back politely.

After a few moments, Sam's gaze flicked back to Kurt's face. "Do we have to do homework today?"

"We can do whatever you want," Kurt replied, flirty.

Sam smiled, and Kurt raised a brow in surprise as Sam arched up and locked him into a kiss with his immensely soft lips. They were just made for kissing, Kurt realized, swooning. That's what Sam's "Born This Way" t-shirt should have said: Amazing Kisser.

 

*

 

Friday's lunch period found Kurt dreamily messing with the bits of lettuce in his salad.

He hadn't been able to concentrate all day. Walking next to Santana on his way to AP Calculus, he'd floated happily. U.S. History had been a blur. Now, on the other side of Mercedes, Sam was looking particularly distracting, sitting there in his preppy little striped polo looking like some Olympian version of Dennis the Menace with that sweep of blond hair over his forehead and sheepish smile haunting his lips as he ate the apple Kurt had sent his way. The blue Sharpie from Kurt's collection was hooked on the cover of his notebook.

Warm, steady flushes of arousal kept pushing their way through Kurt, so he knew he was probably pink in the face and definitely hard in his tweed slacks under the lunch table, but it felt so good to sit there knowing he was still covered in everything Sam had written on him. It was proof it wasn't just some crazy dream.

Kurt kind of hadn't even wanted to shower in case Sharpie wasn't as permanent as one might think, but he had, of course, and while the royal blue ink had faded somewhat under scrubbing, everything was still perfectly readable on his skin. _#6_. A heart. _Sam Evans_. On his stomach, _Trouty Mouth_ , and on his hip, _was here_. On his thigh, Sam had drawn a smiley face. When Kurt had seen it in the mirror, he'd straight-up laughed and said out loud, "Sam Evans, you dork."

The only thing he couldn't read was a random collection of letters Sam had put on his left hip. It literally looked like one long text message typo, words tapped out with fingers on the wrong keys. He'd spent a shameful amount of time lying in his bed with his thumb hooked into his pajama pants, pulling them down his hip so he could see the jumble of letters and wondering if Sam had accidentally written something out of order, dyslexia catching up with him. Maybe his handwriting was just that bad, or maybe the letters had blurred together to look like other letters.

Now he was trying not to stare in Sam's direction, as he couldn't shake the feeling that it was completely obvious that he and Sam had hooked up during their Thursday non-study-non-date-date. If he hadn't worn long sleeves, the whole cafeteria – the whole school – would be able to see Sam's name all over him.

"Hm?" he asked in a disconnected hum. Mercedes was standing there talking to him, and she rolled her eyes at him when he focused on her.

"Oh, Lord. Never mind. I know that twitterpated look. You're thinkin' about your boy." She smiled at him and sang in her sweetly sarcastic way, "Go back to your daydream. I'll ask Quinn if bangs are still in."

"Side-swept bangs for summer, Mercedes!" Kurt called.

Two seats away, Sam said, "Seriously? Am I in style?"

"Part your hair and you're Brad Pitt," said Kurt. Sam swiped a hand over his hair, and Kurt almost spaced out again just watching him. The buzz of his phone in his pocket saved him – it was a text from Blaine.

_Coffee after school? ;)_

Kurt took a steadying breath. He really didn't know what to think about stuff with Blaine right then. Summer without a boyfriend was looming, and it should've made him want to see said boyfriend all he could... but he found himself looking toward Sam again, and laughing to himself. Sam had parted his hair messily just with his fingers and was tucking down the long bits behind his ears, or was trying to, anyway.

The bell rang while Kurt was trying to decide what to respond with, and he looked up to see Sam standing beside him.

"Walk you to your check-point?" he asked.

Kurt put his phone away and stood deliberately, trying not to smile too big. He shook his head, reaching up to gently tuck Sam's bangs back over his forehead. He had grown extraordinarily fond of the shaggy Bieber cut.

"That depends."

"On what?" asked Sam, cocking his head and lifting a hand to help neaten his hair. Kurt glanced around, but Mike and Tina had gone on without them, holding hands.

"What did you write on my hip?" he responded, enjoying the way Sam's ears went red. "I can't read it."

"It's Na'vi," said Sam. "Did you ever see _Avatar_?"

"No. Wait, what? The movie with blue aliens that takes place in Fern Gully?"

Sam took Kurt's tray from the table and took it to the trash for him, then said with a patient grin, "Pandora."

"You wrote on me, in permanent ink – which is still all over me, by the way – in some alien language?" Kurt asked, totally bemused.

"Do you want to know what I wrote?" Sam teased, taking Kurt's bag from where it was slung over the back of his chair and handing it to him. Kurt eyed him, and followed as Sam led him toward the cafeteria's open double doors. Karofsky was staring at them, waiting for him.

"Okay, tell me," Kurt burst.

Sam leaned toward him, broad-shouldered, and murmured, "'Likes boys.'" He stopped, then, because Kurt had stopped mid-step and was staring at him, smiling knowingly. Sort of shyly, Sam said, "See you in glee?"

Smirking, Kurt batted his eyelashes and headed off toward Karofsky, shooting over his shoulder, "Uh-huh. It's a date."


End file.
